


Not Your Boyfriend

by cosmicsoup221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Teenstrade, bad self image, mystrade, teenage snogging, winterMystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:37:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicsoup221b/pseuds/cosmicsoup221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is sixteen, shy, and has been assigned to be Greg's Literature tutor. Greg is seventeen, sexy, and needs to pass Lit to stay on the rugby team. What happens when posh meets rough?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Your Boyfriend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LokiOwnsTheTardis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokiOwnsTheTardis/gifts).



> This is a gift for Loki-owns-the-tardis.tumblr.com, for the Mystrade Winter Exchange. She asked for fluff, angst, and Teenlock, with a side of insecure Mycroft and comforting Greg. I've never written teen anything, so I hope this doesn't disappoint. (too much) 
> 
> While there is no sex here, there is snogging, and talk of sex and such. Features Shycroft and Punkstrade. (sort of)
> 
> I took poetic license with everything - their ages, their school, and how it works, and how punk guys dress. Suspend your disbelief, and enjoy. 
> 
> Thanks to LS for the once over, despite having the blues. All mistakes are mine.

The one place Mycroft always avoided at school was the locker room. Mostly because he didn’t play sport, but also because when the rugby lads were in, they tended to be smelly, loud, and obnoxious.

Unfortunately, the task at hand forced Mycroft to brave a trip there. He took a deep breath, and pushed open the door. “Oh,” he said, then looked around to see if anyone heard him talking to himself. Dear god, he thought. It’s worse than I imagined. It’s damp and steamy and smells of armpits and athletic supporters and… I must find my student and leave as quickly as I can.

“Can I help you?” A rather large man carrying a clipboard stood in his path. “Are you lost?”

“No,” Mycroft replied, knowing that the worst place to show fear was here. “I’m looking for Greg. Greg Lestrade.”

“What’s he done this time?”

“No, no… I’m not… I’m his tutor. Well, his subject matter expert, really. For him to remain on the team, and keep his bursaries, he has to pass Literature.”

“Oh, yes, yes...can’t play without the marks. Can’t win without Greg! He’s quite the player, quite the player.” The man stuck out a meaty hand. “Coach Phillips.”

“Mycroft Holmes.” He dutifully shook the proffered hand, and resisted the urge to wipe his now damp palms on his trousers when the coach released his hand. “Is Greg here?”

“Shower.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Better catch him there, otherwise, he’ll be off on his bike, forgetting that he’s supposed to meet you. It’s a wonder he doesn’t forget his head, he’s so distracted all the time. I hope you can help him – real asset to the team, best full-back we’ve got. I’ve heard of you, that you’re a genius, and can tell people’s secrets by looking at them, and while I don’t believe a word of it, I know you’re smart and won’t fuck this up. He’s not been the same since his dad passed on, and probably just needs a firm hand. And we won’t win the championship without him.” He looked at his watch. “Sorry… gotta go. You go on through; he should be about done.”

“Thank you, Coach Phillips. And don’t worry about your wife finding out that you sneak off to watch adult films whilst she’s at work.” Mycroft gave a small smile of satisfaction at the man’s sputter of indignation, and headed for the showers.

***

Mycroft registered more steam and horrid smells when he pushed in the doors to the showers. He looked around with distaste. A group of players were running around, jumping over the benches, snapping towels at each other – unclothed, to his dismay, and quite oblivious to his presence. Someone’s iPod was playing hip-hop music rather loudly, and it seemed that general chaos reigned. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”

As the revelry and horseplay continued uninterrupted, Mycroft was tempted to leave, and let Greg come and find him, then make it impossible for him to do so. Would serve him right for not responding to his texts to meet him at the library. Utter hell, he thought. He cleared his throat again.

“They can’t hear you.” A young man, pushing a cart filled with dirty towels, stopped by him. “Post-match high. It’ll be hours before they’re coherent. What did you need?”

“I’m looking for Greg.”

“Who?”

With a sigh, Mycroft repeated, “Greg. Lestrade.”

“Oh… Trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“With a capital T,” the lad said with a frown. “Also known as The Brawler, and The Goat. Which are you here for?”

“Since I’m not here to… brawl, nor do I have any idea why anyone would allow themselves to be called 'the goat’, I’ll settle for Greg,” Mycroft stated.

“He’s round there, second row. Probably the only one over there, since he doesn’t go for all the shenanigans after the match. Good looking. Great head of hair on him. Can’t miss him.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft nodded and moved over to the second row. And there he was, in all his naked glory. One leg on the bench, bent over at the waist, drying himself with a tiny white towel.

Christ, Mycroft thought. Good looking hardly covers it. Perhaps gorgeous, or sexy… just really, really fit. He cast an observing eye over him:

Not tall. Stocky. Muscular thighs.

Quite fit.

Scar along left ribcage, a few months old.

Small stab wound on back of right thigh, clumsily stitched by a locum GP with a drinking habit.

Tattoo on left bicep – broken heart topped with a beret, initials ‘PSL’ entwined in center of heart. Speaks of recent loss… most likely aforementioned deceased father.

Scraped knuckles on both hands. Brawler, indeed.

Exhaust burn on right ankle – motorbike rider.

Recent tetanus jab.

Smoker, low-tar. Use matches, not a lighter.

Drinks hard cider.

Mother is a dentist, worries about him.

Wants to be in law enforcement.

Teeth marks in right shoulder, bruise on lower back.

Droplet of water sliding down lower back, headed for pert, round arse cheeks that-

“Having a good look, then?”

Mycroft blinked back to awareness to find Greg smirking at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Did you get a good look?” Greg whipped the towel from his waist with a flourish, and patted his arse cheek. “There. Have a good eyeful.”

“I wasn’t…” Mycroft felt his face heating up at the slight bouncy motion that slap caused, and looked away. “I’m… that is, I was looking for you.”

“And so you found me.” He pulled on a pair of cotton boxer briefs, and stood up straight, hands on his hips, looking at Mycroft with a definite leer. “Posh, rich... oh, you must be my secret admirer. Sorry, I’m not up to shagging right now. Maybe in a few hours…?”

“I haven’t come to be shagged.” Mycroft swallowed hard, and looked at him. Dark brown eyes, long lashes, luxurious hair that flopped carelessly over his right eye. Full, lush lips, slightly parted, showing a flash of those straight, white teeth. Slight dusting of hair trailing from his chest down to the top of the waistband of his pants… Dear lord, he thought, if you exist, please don’t let me have an erection… please. He took a deep, calming breath, and let it out slowly. Thankfully, no erection. “I’m your…”

“New boyfriend?”

“Um… no, no. Your tutor. Mycroft Holmes. I texted you twice.”

“Can’t text during a match.” Greg looked him up and down again, and this time, the smile was more wolfish. “Bit young to be a tutor. How old are you?”

Regaining his sense of purpose, Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I’m the tutor assigned to you because you obviously need help. What has my age got to do with it?”

“Well…” Greg moved closer, twisting the towel in his hands. He looped it around Mycroft’s neck and tugged him closer. “I need to make sure you’re legal when I kiss you.”

Mycroft was mesmerised by those lips, a mere whisper away from his own. “I’m sixteen, and there’s not going to be any kissing.” And there it was, that nervous squeak he’d been trying so hard to overcome. He cleared his throat. “None at all.” There, he thought. That was better. Authoritative.

“No?” Greg let the towel slide down to Mycroft’s waist, and swished it back and forth. “You’re such a lovely thing, all long legs and shy smiles. Pretty blue eyes, too. Bet you’ve never even been kissed, have you?”

“That’s n-not… not your business,” Mycroft stuttered. “I’m not… I’m…” He wanted it, wanted to be kissed and hugged and touched by someone who liked him, but he knew better. No one wanted a pudgy, intellectual sixteen year-old with a penchant for languages, and the ability to tell what you did by the mud on your shoes. He’d been humiliated too many times not to recognize when he was being played. He shook his head to clear it, and stepped back. “Stop this.”

“Aw.” Greg smiled and let the towel drop to the floor. “Have I frightened you?”

“Not really.” Mycroft straightened his shirt, and gathered his wits about himself. “I don’t like being toyed with, Gregory Lestrade. I’m not stupid - I’m far from your type, and guys like you only play around with guys like me to humiliate them. Well, you’re not going to do that to me, so let’s just get that clear now. I’m off limits to you.”

“Worth a try,” he shrugged. “And I wasn’t toying with you. You’re cute. All buttoned up and proper, with your cardy, and your shiny shoes. Are you sure you’re just sixteen, and not sixty?”

“Please finish dressing. I’ll be outside.” Ignoring the embarrassing heat he felt on his cheeks and neck, Mycroft drew himself up, lifted his nose, and marched out of the locker room, ignoring Greg’s laughter that echoed behind him.

***

Fifteen minutes later, Mycroft bit back a sigh of relief as Greg exited the locker room. “Finally.”

Greg chuckled, and hoisted his rucksack over his shoulder. “Takes forever to get my hair right.”

Mycroft chanced a look at him, and immediately regretted it. If one could look better with clothes on, Greg was that person. Faded jeans, ripped at the knees, fitting low on his hips, loosely laced burgundy Dr. Martens encasing his long feet. A black and red AC/DC t-shirt completed the ensemble, and Mycroft was not even going to acknowledge the well-worn leather jacket covered with badges. Or the hair that was spiked up on top. He looked down at his own clothes – sharply creased dark trousers, argyle print cashmere sleeveless jumper over a starched white shirt, and highly polished loafers – with distaste, but refused to entertain the bleak thoughts rolling to a boil in his mind. “I’ve booked a room at the library so we’ll have access to the materials you need.”

“Can’t go to the library.” At Mycroft’s look of shock, Greg shrugged. “I’m banned.”

“What did you do to be banned from a library?” Mycroft asked with a frown. “I can imagine, but do enlighten me.”

“Regular lads don’t go around saying ‘enlighten me’, Mycroft. You’re going to have to loosen up, if we’re going to be friends.”

“We’re not going to be friends, so the point is moot.”

“I thought it was ‘mute’.”

“Hence the reason you need a tutor,” Mycroft sniffed. "The origin of the phrase -"

“Yeah, yeah, brainy, I’m sure you know all about where it came from. Can we be boyfriends, then?” Greg sidled closer, and nudged Mycroft with his shoulder. “I love a challenge.”

“So I’ve heard,” Mycroft replied. “I’m not a challenge – I’m not interested in anything other than assisting you in passing your literature class. Are you banned from all libraries in the area, or just the one here?”

“All. Mrs. Hudson declared me incorrigible, and a menace to her sanity. The word was given.”

“Dear lord,” Mycroft sighed. Now what? He didn’t want to take him home, because Mummy and Father would be there, and no way was he doing that. “Can we go to yours?”

“Oooh, is the Iceman about to stop being a tease and put out?”

Greg rolled his eyes at the owner of the voice behind them. He turned and gave the boy a hard stare. “Bugger off, Dimwit.”

Andy Dimmock, Greg’s teammate, and thorn in his side, just laughed. “No need to feel threatened, Greg. Mr. Freeze isn’t going to let you get past first base anyway.”

“I’m his tutor, not his boyfriend,” Mycroft corrected. “And you shouldn’t go around spreading lies, Andy.”

“It’s not a lie. Tommy told us how you helped him with maths, then when he wanted to take it further, you all but ran home. A tease is what you are.”

“I’d call it having taste,” Greg said. “Who the hell would want Tommy? He’s got bad breath and he steals. Good riddance, I say.”

“Oh, you would defend him,” Andy sneers. “Holmes is a weirdo, and so are you. Doesn’t matter how cool you think you are, Greg… you’ll never fit in here.”

Mycroft ignored him, and tugged at Greg’s arm. “We have work to do, and no time to stand here and listen to the tipsy ravings of the son of a serial adulterer who seeks out glory holes at S&M clubs as a way to affirm his masculinity. How fortuitous that Katie Lawson went public with the fact that’s she’s seeing Adam Gregson before you gave her your grandmother’s heirloom ruby. She’d have never given it back, even though it’s a fake.”

Dimmock blinked a few times as he absorbed what Mycroft said. Then he balled up his fist, and swung.

Mycroft flinched, and prepared for the blow, but Greg moved in quickly, and caught Dimmock’s fist as it came around. He twisted the arm, and brought it up behind Dimmock’s back. “Bad idea, Andy. This is my tutor. If I don’t pass Lit because you hurt him, I lose my bursaries. If I lose my bursaries, I’m off the team. I’m off the team, I hurt you. Is that what you want?”

Wrenching his arm out of Greg’s grip, Dimmock shook his head. “One day, Greg… you just wait.”

“Been saying that rubbish for two years now, Dimwit.” Greg laughed and took Mycroft’s hand. “All you done so far is bitten me. Like a dog.”

“Yeah, whatever. Bitches.” Dimmock stormed off, muttering curses.

“Thank you.” Mycroft took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. He looked at Greg with admiration, and held out the cloth to him. “You’re… ah, quite agile. Quick reflexes. Is that why you’re called a goat?”

“What?”

“The towel boy said you were called the goat. Why?”

Greg snorted at the offer of the handkerchief, and shook his head. “Greatest of all time.”

“Oh, an acronym. Greatest at what?”

“Lots of things,” Greg said with a smirk.

Mycroft sighed, and stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket. “It’s always sex with you, isn’t it?”

“I’m seventeen, Mycroft. Not much else to think about.”

“Why don’t you have a… boy or girlfriend, if you’re so… if you want sex all the time?”

Greg shrugs. “Haven’t met the right person. Well,” he says with a side glance at Mycroft, “I have, but he doesn’t like me yet.”

“Not subtle at all, are you?”

“Neither are you. You’ve got a mouth on you. Gonna get you hurt.”

“It already has, in fact, but I can’t turn it off. But nothing will happen to me while I’m your tutor, so I believe I’m safe for now.” Mycroft was pointedly ignoring the fact that Greg was still holding his hand. In broad daylight. “Thank you for defending me.” He tried to ease his hand from Greg’s grip, but it was held fast. “Um…”

“Leave your hand, I like holding it. It’s soft. And you smell good. Fresh and clean.”

Mycroft blushed again. “I’m not going to be your boyfriend, so stop trying to flatter me.”

“I’m not.” Greg stopped walking, and turned to face him. “You would have let him hit you.”

“Yes. I’m not a fighter; however, once I’m done with you, you’ll wish I’d simply fought back.” He sighed. “It can be quite tedious being different, so I had to develop a certain set of skills to make sure those who try to hurt me learn not to do it again.”

“Glad I’m on your good side.” Greg squeezed his hand, and started walking again. They walked in silence for a bit, then Greg laughed. “You’re very cute, you know?”

“As I’ve said, you don’t have to flatter me. I’ll still be your tutor, and ensure that you pass the class with flying colours.”

“Why don’t you believe that someone could find you attractive?” Greg asked. “You are, you know.”

“I’m two scones away from fat, pale as a ghost, I have freckles everywhere, my hair looks like a bird’s nest, and I’m smarter than all my professors. I was homeschooled until last term, and I’m only here because my mother insisted I needed to make friends. Guess how well that’s worked? If I can’t even make friends, who would want me as a boyfriend?

“Freckles everywhere?”

Mycroft sighed. “You would pick up on that.”

“Maybe because the rest of what you said was shite.” Greg pulled him over to stand under a large tree. He dropped his pack, and nudged at Mycroft’s chest. “Lean back.”

“What… Greg…!” Mycroft felt a sliver of panic rising in his stomach. “I’m not…”

“I know,” Greg soothed. “But I can’t resist you, Mycroft. Let me kiss you. Just once, and if you don’t like it, don’t like me, we can just be friends. But I can’t not kiss you. Since I saw you staring at me, I’ve wanted to kiss you. Yeah?”

“I’m not good at this, Greg,” Mycroft practically moaned as Greg pressed him back against the tree. “And if you’re just… can you stop a minute? Please?”

Greg pulled away with a frown. “Why?”

“Just let me…” Mycroft pulled in a deep breath, and looked at Greg, searching for any trace of deceit, malice, teasing, or anything that would ultimately lead to humiliation, but found none. What he saw was lust, and amusement. The amusement worried him a bit, and he bit his lip. “What’s amusing?”

“You can see that?”

“Yes.”

“And all that about Dimwit’s dad? It was true?”

“Yes.” Mycroft took in a deep breath. “It’s… I can’t turn it off. I do try. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Greg frowned. “It’s just honesty. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Oh, there’s lots wrong with it,” Mycroft refuted with a snort. “It puts people off.”

“Not putting me off. And you are funny.” At Mycroft’s look of sadness, Greg added, “But not like you think.”

“Like… how, then?”

“It’s funny that to be so smart, you’re pretty dumb when it comes to people. If I was going to do something to humiliate you, I’ve have done so in the locker room with everyone around.” He pressed himself against Mycroft, and put a hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t wonder how you got to be my tutor? I picked you because I wanted to get to know you. I’ve seen you at lunch time, all alone, reading or doing your puzzles. And I wanted to be your friend – maybe more – but I’m just a dumb jock… why would a big brain like you go for a dumb rugger like me?”

“You’ve been watching me?” Mycroft lifted both eyebrows in shock. “But you’re… all the girls like you, and lots of the guys. And you're far from dumb. Why would you want me? I’m… me. Nothing special.”

“Oh, Myc...” Greg ignored the frown he got from using a nickname, but pressed on. “You’re tall, handsome, brilliant… special. I wanted to get to know you, so I traded with Scott so that you’d be my tutor. And I was right… you’re way better looking up close, and now I want to kiss you. Will you let me?”

“Fine.” Mycroft leaned back, closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and waited. And waited. Waited some more. He opened his eyes, and saw that Greg was looking at him with a frown. “What?”

“This isn’t a film from the fifties, Mycroft. I want to kiss you, and have you kiss me back.” He took Mycroft’s hands, and placed them on his hips. “Hold me here.” He leaned in, and pressed his lips to the dimple in Mycroft’s chin. “You really are good-looking,” he whispers.

“Is there usually this much talking when people kiss?” Mycroft asked.

Greg laughed, and pressed a kiss to the side of Mycroft’s long, lovely neck. “Depends, I guess.”

“It’s frustrating. Just get it over with so I’ll know if I like it.”

“You will.” Greg leaned in and covered Mycroft’s lips with his. He was gentle, not pushing for more, as Mycroft got used to the feeling of another’s lips, but as soon as he felt those soft lips part a tiny bit, Greg used the small opening to press his tongue in.

Greg tasted Mycroft deeply, practically devouring the willing mouth, sucking at his tongue, moaning as Mycroft melted.

Oh, I do like this, Mycroft thought, cataloguing the sensations as he felt them. He sank deeper into the kiss, and was amazed at how hot it was. But… oh, god… I have no…where do the hands go? Oh, god… what do I… where should I… he groaned, and wrenched his mouth away.

“Shit,” Greg panted, and stepped back a pace. “I’m sorry, Mycroft… Jesus… so sorry I got carried away.” He searched Mycroft’s face for any sign of fear or distaste, and frowned. “Did I… what’s wrong?”

“Too much…” Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut, and groaned. “I was… I didn’t know what to do with my hands.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Greg laughed, and moved back in closer. “What did you want to do with them?”

“I don’t know… touch you?”

“Then you should have.”

“We’re in public!”

“Good thing,” Greg replied. “Or we’d have been stripped by now.” He breathed out heavily for a few moments, and dipped his head. “One more, and then you’ll tell me.”

“But-”

“Here.” Greg grabbed Mycroft’s hands and put them on his arse. “Hold them there, squeeze if you want.”

Mycroft dropped his hands as if he’d touched something hot. “I-I… not there,” he whispered, and placed his hands on Greg’s shoulders. “This is good.” His eyes slid closed, and he sighed. “I’m ready.”

“Thank god.” Greg kissed him again, skipping the coaxing bit, and went straight for the gold. This kiss was soft and sweet, but assertive and greedy… aggressive. He thrust his tongue in and out of the wet heat of Mycroft’s mouth, all while his hands moved around his shoulders, and down his back. He tugged him closer, wanting to feel every inch of this sweet, sweet lad pressed against him.

Mycroft whimpered at the full body contact, and let his fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of Greg’s neck. He wanted… god, he didn’t know what he wanted, but if this kept up, it was going to happen right under a tree, in broad daylight, which was a bad idea. He pulled back, breaking the kiss, and let his forehead rest against Greg’s shoulder.

“Please don’t move, Mycroft,” Greg said, an edge to his voice.

“What is it? Is someone coming?”

“If you keep moving, yes,” Greg said shakily.

Mycroft frowned. “I don’t… oh. OH. Christ, Greg, I’m…”

“Shh…” Greg soothed. “It’s… I’m okay, Mycroft. You rubbing against me like you did was unexpected, and a bit much. I’ll be all right in a sec.”

Though mortified that he’d responded to Greg so wantonly, he was curious about Greg’s reaction, and resulting arousal. He wanted to see, to know, to verify. And the thought that he’d aroused someone… well, he wanted evidence. He eased back slightly, wanting to look, to touch…

“No.” Greg grabbed his wrist and held it fast. “Mycroft…”

“Sorry.”

“Liar.”

The both laughed, and stood there breathing in and out for a few moments.

“Better now.” Greg let his wrist go, and kissed Mycroft’s lips lightly, then stepped away. “Well?”

Well, indeed, Mycroft thought. Now what? How do I play it? Cool, and nonchalant, or… I am way out of my depth here. He opted for nonchalant. “Well, what?”

“Oh, going for cool, then?” Greg shook a cigarette from the pack his kept in his jacket, and lit it. “Smoke?”

“Ah… no. Bad for you.”

“Keeps me calm,” Greg said with a shrug and took a large drag. “Did you enjoy yourself? I’m only asking to be polite; I already know the answer.”

“I did.” Mycroft ducked his head, and kicked at the dirt at his feet. “I don’t know if I like not being in control of my body.”

“You’re only sixteen, Mycroft. You won’t have that kind of control until you’re in your thirties. Or so my mum says.”

“You talk to your mum about… well, sex?” Mycroft was intrigued. Mummy and Father gave him ‘the talk’, but by then, he’d read all the materials on the subject, and was satisfied that he knew all there was to know.

“Yeah, she’s really open about it, since mum’s worry about their boys getting girls up the duff.”

“I don’t think my mother worries about that,” Mycroft admitted. “She worries that I’m lonely, that I’m bullied, and that I spend too much time on the computer.”

“You probably do.” Greg blew smoke skyward, then stubbed the cigarette out against the tree trunk. “So…?”

“You’re very impatient,” Mycroft tisked. “I think yes. I like you. And I like that you like me.”

“Never had an answer like that.”

“You’ve never met anyone like me. I’ll probably put you off a lot, Greg, because I’m different.”

“Different is good.”

“Say that after you’ve met my brother Sherlock.” Mycroft suppressed a shudder at the thought, and smiled at Greg. “We should go.”

“Yeah.” Greg hefted his pack, and took Mycroft’s hand.

They walked across the pitch, and down the path to the car park, where Greg’s motorcycle was parked. “You want a ride?”

“I have my car.” He nodded vaguely toward the cars, not wanting to bring attention to the Audi parked a few spots away. “Perhaps another time.”

“You coming to mine?”

“Of course. We do have to get started on Shakespeare, at least.”

“I’m already aces at Shakespeare. How about we start with Byron or Joyce? I don’t get either…”

“How fortunate for you that I do.”

“And you probably know where I live, don’t you?”

“I’ll follow you.” Mycroft felt tense, and wasn’t sure what had happened. “Did I… is something wrong?”

“No,” Greg said. “Just… what did you see when you looked at me? In the showers?”

“Oh. Greg…” He sighed and shook his head. “Your father recently died, and you fight a lot. Your mother is a dentist, and you’re very fit. You want to be in law enforcement when you’re done with university, which I think will suit you perfectly. Was there something you were worried about?”

“No… I just… my dad wasn’t the best guy, but I loved him. You should know that.”

“The tattoo is evidence, Greg.” Mycroft smiled. “I don’t always… there’s always something I miss. So, not to worry.” Emboldened by Greg’s crooked smile, Mycroft stepped forward and planted a quick kiss on his lips. “There now. That should ease any worries you have. Now… I do have to be home at a reasonable hour, and I’m sure you’ll want to snog me more after we’re done revising…?”

“Oh, yeah…” Greg lifted his helmet onto to his head, gave Mycroft a thumbs up, and he swung his leg over and got on his bike. He grinned as Mycroft blushed. He turned the key, and the bike roared to life.

Mycroft shook his head to clear the cloud of rather personal deductions that sprang to mind when Greg sat himself on that bike. Christ, he thought. Get a hold of yourself. He fished out his keys, and made his way over to his car. He stopped, and turned back. “Greg!” he shouted over the din.

Greg turned with a frown. “What?” he yelled back.

“Still not your boyfriend!”

Mycroft ignored Greg’s upraised middle finger, and with a laugh, got in his car.

He looked at himself in the mirror and frowned at what he saw. Cheeks flushed, lips red and swollen, and his eyes seemed… shiny. I look happy, he thought. Which is…good. This might just work. He started the car, and eased out of the space, smiling as Greg rolled by, looking at ease and sexy on his bike.

Maybe there was something to this boyfriend lark after all.  

 

Fin

 


End file.
